


Pygmalion

by amarriageoftrueminds



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack, Drunk Will, DrunkenKissesChallenge, First Kiss, Hannibal can dance if he wants to he can leave your friends behind, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, eager-sub!Hannibal, erotic pocket-square touching, fancy!Will owns the party, freeze dance, gentle-dom!Will, mads 'micro-expressions' mikkelsen everybody, unbeta'd so you'll just have to take it as it is, will is a little shit, working title 'Will leads Hannibal home by his dick'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7237357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarriageoftrueminds/pseuds/amarriageoftrueminds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal is killing it (for once metaphorically) at a silly party game of Freeze Dance (that's 'Musical Statues' to my fellow Brits). </p><p>Whisky-rude!Will is bored off his tits and wants to go home, but he knows they can’t leave unless he can think of <i>some way </i>of distracting Hannibal badly enough to make him move, and thus knock him out of the competition...<br/> </p><p>  <span class="small">Also partly inspired by yon ancient hannibunny, <a>Fancy!Will Owns The Party</a>, because I couldn't resist sticking in some crazystupidfine daddy!Will milkshake bringing all the cougars to the yard.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Pygmalion

* * *

 

 

Will is careful to spend the whole night being a dick.

This is partly to avenge himself on Hannibal, and partly to make sure that they are too memorable a presence for them to risk culling from this particular sty.

  Not that there is _physically_ much meat for the taking, here; if Hannibal wanted breast he’d have to kill one of the men, since Will can’t see a single tit (of the many on display) that wasn’t put there by a surgeon.

  Three minutes had been enough to convince him of Hannibal’s reason for accepting the invitation; Mother Theresa would have strangled at least three of the other guests before they’d finished handing out the _hors d'oeuvres._

  And now, at- what is it, two-thirty in the morning? -the awful trophy-wife hostess announces her intention to use the band, which boasts more than one honoured member of the Orquesta Filarmónica de Buenos Aires, as the soundtrack to a game of _Freeze Dance._

When Will sees the look on Hannibal’s face he thinks he’s actually going to stab someone.

This he takes as their signal to leave.

  He’s on the point of offering their excuses when he realises that the trophy-wife has caught one of Hannibal’s sleeves in her pink taloned hand and is misinterpreting the ‘ _remove that from my suit or I’ll remove it from your body’_ expression as polite interest.

 ‘Come on, Immanuel,’ she croons at Hannibal. ‘Come and play.’

She is drawing him into the game and Hannibal, fuck him, is _joining in._

Will will be damned if he does.

  Instead he stations himself next to a bottle, lounging against one of the sideboards. He crosses his ankles and digs one hand into the pocket of his slacks, the other cradling a glass, in an over-performance of ease which telegraphs how monumentally, _glacially_ pissed-off he is, for only Hannibal to see.

  He can smell the whiskey in his cup, the oil in his hair, a lock hanging down over one eye (he has let his beard grow a little fuller, despite the hotter temperatures down here, to hide the scar; though he keeps it neatly trimmed.)

The game begins.

  Even to his double-malt marinaded eye, it is apparent what a striking image Hannibal presents. As soon as the music stops, he becomes a pale-suited statue in a crowd of swaying, giggling drunks, a tawny lion slipping through the long grass.

  Between pauses, the dancers switch between dancing alone and dancing with a partner, depending on numbers and whether they can get one. Hannibal is never partnerless unless he chooses to be; in every single lull he is tapped on the shoulder by a new woman. Or a new man.

A tight knot forms low in Will’s stomach, a string tugging in from the belly scar like an umbilical chord.

He doesn’t like it.

  Hannibal looks too much like a predator; the guests too much like prey. More than once he sneaks up to some drunk who only realises he’s there when the music stops. They let out a startled shriek to find him standing right behind them, and everybody laughs.

Idiots.

He is _playing._

  There’s a big Latino man in a cream blazer moving through the dancers. He has a broken nose and incongruous peroxide-blond hair (incongruous because his eyes are black). Gold signet rings on his fingers and a gold medallion nestling in his black chesthair. His name is Guido, Will thinks. He looks like he probably employs people who beat people up for a living.

Guido takes Hannibal for a twirl.

Will doesn’t like it.

  He is aware of the heat, the booze, his anger, the irrational jealousy and feeling of possessiveness, giving him a sheen, lending a fox-like burn to his blue stare. Knows Hannibal likes it.

Will is also aware of how handsome he looks tonight, and the attention he is getting merely by standing still.

  He is studiously avoiding the sly glances of the bored wives slipping over him, running speculative eyes over the piece of tanned chest visible, glittering with sweat, in the open neck of his shirt ( _three hundred dollars, white silk, guess who_ ).

They are watching him glower at Hannibal, and wondering what exactly their relationship is, and whether he is happy in it.

  There’s a dangerous gleam in Hannibal’s eye whenever the dance brings him round to face Will, which it often (unsurprisingly) does. Will sees his how his eyes glide away from him, as he turns in the dance, and skim over the women watching Will. Memorising. Taking notes.

 Hannibal is aware of their admiration. Of course he’s aware. It excites him to feel their covetous eyes on Will’s body, and know that Will feels it too; Will can’t think of a surer way to put them on the cutting board than to accept their advances.

 But, hard as he tries, he finds his mind drifting, mirroring their desires; he is picking out other couples, separating the happy from the unhappy, the attractive from the unattractive. Even other men.

_No._

He stops himself, blinking groggily.

The noise levels are climbing.

Now the dancers are outnumbered by the non-dancers, crowding round on all sides. All sides but one.

  Maybe there’s something about Hannibal’s focus on him, or maybe Will is giving off a sufficient aura of irritation, but there is no crowd between them; in front of him and his sideboard. He has a clear field of vision on the dance, like an extra standing upstage of the main drama, just shy of the spotlight, waiting in the wings.

  Ousted players are heckling; nudging and jump-scaring, trying to put off anyone still in the game. It’s not long before the sabotage takes a prurient turn, starts to include pinching and tickling.

Guido gets a woman out of the game by pretending to be about to fondle her breasts, in slow-motion, until she is forced to move or be groped.

He and Hannibal are sharing eye-contact just as one of the others slaps Hannibal, hard, on the ass, and Will sees the familiar murderous-black flash through his eyes.

The blissful ignorance, Hannibal’s obvious annoyance; it’s all so horrifically comic. Will sips from his glass.

But secretly he’s annoyed.

Hannibal is never going to leave after such an affront.

Despite the obnoxious amount of booze and drugs swirling through the bloodstreams of its participants, the game goes on and on.

Will waits until Hannibal dances near - knowing he would - and concentrates on not slurring his words:

  ‘Are you done browsing?’

Hannibal shoots him a delighted glance.

  ‘Would you like to leave?’ he asks, accent warping his vowels in odd ways - he must be a little tipsy too.

Before Will can answer, the music stops and he has to snap his mouth shut. He lets out a gusty sigh of annoyance, and knows he’s the only one capable of detecting the tightening around Hannibal’s eyes which passes for a shit-eating grin. Any normal person would be out of the game by now.

The music starts.

Hannibal separates from his partner with a flourish and dances back.

  ‘We can’t leave until the game is over.’ He points out, in that somehow simultaneously childish and mature tone of voice. ‘It would be rude.’

  ‘You could tap out.’

  ‘I could.’

Freeze.

But he won’t.

Hannibal is back.

  ‘ _Perhaps if you ask nicely..._ ’

  Will knows he could get Hannibal to come away with him if he just feigned indifference and walked out - not like anyone would notice the absence of one man in this throng.

 But that would involve walking in a longer, straighter line than he thinks he can manage without falling over, right now. He doesn’t want to fall over in front of these people.

Instead he pointedly looks _away_ from Hannibal, at the other dancers.

Only a few left, now; widely spaced.

The hostess is getting the band to leave longer and longer pauses, making it more and more difficult for the players to hold their poses.

Only four people left in the game.

 _Oh._ Will thinks softly, turning back to Hannibal. _You genuinely want to win._

There’s a man standing with his arms wrapped around his wife (or somebody’s wife) when the music stops.

  The crowd watches, gleefully jeering, as the man slowly sticks out a long pointed tongue and inches it closer and closer and closer to the woman’s nose, until- (there’s a great shout of laughter) -she finally breaks.

Down to three.

Hannibal is watching him; knows Will is onto him.

Will can feel the whiskey devilment rising up inside.

Guido is shuffling across the floor, eye on Hannibal’s back. Planning a similar sabotage?

_Fuck you._

  Will knocks back what turns out to be the last of the bottle. Has to concentrate to put his glass _not_ down- to _not_ put it- his glass down- on _not_ the edge of the- thing- and it still clinks louder than he expects.

  He unlocks his ankles, pushes himself upright with a minimum of effort, feeling lazy and loose-limbed. He steadies the spinning sideboard with one hand, and slouches off across the open floor.

  A funny thing happens. The crowd around him turns into wooden panelled walls. Guido becomes a tall blond candelabra.

  The Hannibal statue is in a white room. Spotlight. He’s approaching Hannibal from one side of a huge panel of glass. No. No. He’s on the other side of the glass, _with_ Hannibal.

Hannibal is marble?

Hannibal is in white.

A strait-jacket. Trussed up. He can’t move. That’s why he can’t move.

_Finally showing some restraint, Hannibal?_

Will thinks he likes it. He likes him in restraints.

  Hannibal is even more tan than when Will first met him; skin brown and taut under his cheekbones, a finer web of crows feet around his hooded crafty eyes, his teeth (if he were smiling) would look whiter. This late in the night a little of the gel has sweated out of his hair, making it look silky.

  Will prowls up to him, head tilted back so Hannibal can look into his face, but not meeting Hannibal’s eyes. He scuffs a toe on one of Hannibal's and catches his gaze by accident and suddenly they are in the _Cappella Palatina_ together _,_ golden candle-light soft all around them, nestled in a bubble of hallowed silence.

By normal standards Hannibal is motionless, but with Will he still has the voice of his eyes.

 _What are you up to, cunning boy?_ They seem to say.

They are sparkling with curiosity and amusement.

But was that... is there a quiver of _nerves_ , there?

Will smiles to himself, and lowers his gaze.

_So, how to..._

  Breathing deep, he can smell Hannibal. His cologne. Knows Hannibal can smell him, too; what self-control he must be exercising not to flare his nostrils, to drink in his scent.

He examines the front of Hannibal’s suit jacket and thinks about his fastidiousness, how carefully he presses and arranges things, about his love of perfect right-angles.

_Ah._

  Wickedness rising, Will reaches out and touches one finger tip to the lower corner of Hannibal’s pocket-square, a black silk handkerchief, chosen to set off his pale suit.

He starts to drag his finger slowly up the crease. Just the _whisper_ of a threat, as he traces - _higher, higher_.

He flicks his eyes up to Hannibal’s just as his fingernail rasps over the tip, to see how he’s taking it.

He is watching, entranced, an eerily unmoving figure with a hard metallic gleam in the hollow of its eyes, like a fire at the back of a cave.

Still not moving.

Will sighs through his nose.

  He thinks the chapel may be spinning behind him, so to kill two birds he reaches out with the flats of his palms, fingers splayed back in a characteristic gesture, and smooths down the lapels of Hannibal’s jacket.

Thinks about Hannibal’s tits, under his hands, under the fabric, the prickle of a bead of sweat, twitching its way through his chest hair as it slides down his skin.

_How close am I to your nipples right now?_

Catches movement out of the corner of his eye; did Hannibal’s eyelash flicker?

The chapel threatens to twirl out from under his feet again and Will slumps against him, not entirely intentionally.

  The heat between them doubles as his body briefly presses against Hannibal’s, from hip to sternum; held up on him not by hands but by soft parts and hard, and though Hannibal stays steady as a rock against him Will realises he has stopped _breathing_.

  Arms trapped between their chests, Will grasps the edges of his lapels, like he’s straightening him out instead of holding himself up; still not meeting his eye. He has to save that trick, knows how much Hannibal likes it.

 ‘ _Hannibal,’_ he murmurs, sleepily, cruelly, into the hollow of his throat. ‘Take me home.’

Then he leans back a little and looks up.

  Hannibal’s eyes have gone completely, glassily black, have slid away into the middle-distance behind him, like he’s on some other plane. This is torture for him, Will knows it.

Pupil dilation doesn’t count as movement, though. So...

Will leans forward, eyes dropping. To Hannibal’s lips.

_Dare I...?_

  He nuzzles at him, playfully, sweetly, just a little... so slow, so close, so _microscopically_ close. He knows Hannibal can feel the brush of his beard on his chin, on his top lip. But not his skin, not his mouth. _You don’t get that yet._

  Will can hear his pulse pounding in his head like a crash of waves, bets he’d be able to see his heart if he opened up his shirt. The whiskey has taken on an odd taste of adrenalin on his tongue.

  He tilts his head, sticks out his jaw a little, to match Hannibal’s slight overbite. He knows what to say, to whisper into Hannibal’s mouth, letting the consonant breaths puff on his skin.

  ‘ _Please.’_

  And then he gives Hannibal his lips. Lightly, gently, as a snowflake landing, so gently his skin over-reacts, tingles with the tiny frictions. Hannibal’s lips are damp and slippery-smooth; even with his mouth only fractionally open they put a dew on Will’s lips, like lubricant; makes his mouth slip and slide wetly on Hannibal’s, more raunchily than he’d intended.

Still, Will makes sure he does it _just_ hard enough to get the burn of Hannibal’s stubble across his chin, and no more; it stings a little. He likes it.

  He can _feel_ the sigh Hannibal is holding in, rising in his lungs, the ghostly moan of pleasure. Imagines he can feel the throb of blood in his groin, or maybe that’s his own. Knows how much this is costing him, to remain motionless, to not respond.

_Do you like this? Me torturing you like this?_

  He scrapes at Hannibal’s lower lip with his teeth. Coaxing, teasing, drawing him out. He flicks the tip of his tongue across the tender spot, just once, a darting motion. A spank. Wonders if he imagines Hannibal’s cock twitching in his pants.

_Can you taste me?_

_Don’t you want to taste me...? Hannibal...? You could have it... you could have the taste of me... if you just open up for me... please..._

  He traces a loop with his tongue around Hannibal’s mouth; starts by dragging it across his lower lip, slowly, pensively, with eyes lidded open, like a lion licking blood from a carcass. Able to see Hannibal watching him; thinking about how Hannibal tastes. Now drags it across Hannibal’s upper lip as if painting it, thanking it.

  He knows Hannibal is thinking about his mouth, his scalding hot tongue, how much spit there is in his mouth. Imagining how it would feel elsewhere. Wondering if Will would ever lick the slit of his prick like _this,_ so slow, so agonisingly slow, if Will would ever let him rest the plum of it on the pillow of his pretty lips.

And Will knows... he knows what will do it: so he does the cruellest thing.

  He sighs, a mournful breath, and starts to sway and turn his face away; murmuring, grimacing, like he’s regretting it. Unpeeling his lips from Hannibal’s with one final, _kind_ peck, an audible kiss. An insult. He opens his mouth a little as he goes, forehead pressed to Hannibal’s, playing vulnerable for him, breathing shakily.

  Just enough for Hannibal to feel his hot breath on his face; _feel it, it’s right here, you could take it, you could have your tongue in my mouth, you could feel me moaning on your tongue if you just-_

  Hannibal’s treacherous body is practically _begging_ Will: _please please please give me more,_ pathetic with need. And Hannibal, poor Hannibal, can’t stop himself.

  He lets out a petulant animal sound as Will separates from him, and leans _with_ him, moving after him, like his own mouth is leading him on; chasing the sweet burning breathy wetness. 

He’s out of the game.

The crowd goes wild.

 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> This happened because:  
> 1 - Will clearly has a thing for Hannibal in restraints.  
> 2 - also for coming up with creative non-literal ways to say 'fuck you.'  
> 3 - Hannibal deserves it.  
> 4 - it gives me an excuse to make meta Mads You ACTUAL Human Statue jokes.  
> 5 - everything seems like a good idea at 3am.  
>  
> 
>   
> Bonus points to anyone who spots the bond villain masquerading as an OC.  
> 


End file.
